


After the Fire

by monicawoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer always kept his word, but he'd found a way to make Sam regret ever asking him to keep Dean safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for this year's spn_summergen exchange for serawade's wonderful prompt: _Lucifer won and took over the world in Sam's body. He keeps Dean a prisoner. If Sam misbehaves (tries to fight the possession) Dean is punished, if Sam behaves, Lucifer lets him talk to Dean once in a while._

“Hey Dean, just checking in. I took out a vampire nest in Portland today. A small one.” Sam ran his hand through his hair shaking out some of the snow that had gotten stuck there. The tip of his ears were still numb from the cold. “There were only four of them. I hadn’t seen any in so long, I was started to think they died out, you know?” He paused trying to think of what else he should say. “Tell Bobby I say hi.”

He ended the call and tossed his phone on the single motel room bed. Then he stripped out of his his shirt and his snow-soaked pants and took a long shower, the warm water burning as his cold fingers and toes started to thaw. By the time he got out of the shower the small mirror in the bathroom was completely fogged up. He grabbed one of the washcloths hanging from the towel rack and went to wipe the mirror clean. Then he froze. In the center of the fogged glass was a pitchfork.

Sam stumbled back a few steps, grabbed the doorknob and threw the door open as quickly as he could. The cold air from the main room covered his chest and arms in goosebumps and he hurriedly grabbed a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants from his duffel, keeping his eyes on the bathroom the whole time. The mirror had cleared, and the pitchfork was gone, but Sam still saw it, burned into his mind.

He brought his laptop over to the bed and crawled under the sheets, still shivering. The heater was broken, but it hadn’t really bothered him until tonight.

It took him hours to fall asleep, and when he did his dreams were uneasy. He ran through a few rounds of his latest recurring nightmare—the one where he was in the Impala, but when he turned to look over at Dean, Lucifer was in his place, holding the steering wheel loosely and smiling. After the sixth loop though, something changed. It _was_ Dean in the Impala, but he wouldn’t look at him.

“Dean,” Sam said, but he got no response. He tried again louder. “Dean?”

Something about Dean’s hands looked off, and Sam leaned a little closer to see why. Dreams always had a way of warping perspective, so even though he hadn't moved, he could suddenly see the back of Dean's right hand with perfect clarity. The knuckles were starting to poke through. His brother's skin was an angry red and it was peeling—falling off in chunks as Sam watched. He turned then, to smile at Sam through teeth bloody, and said, “It’s better this way, Sammy.”

Sam woke up in a cold sweat. He walked to the bathroom sink in the dark and let cold water sluice over his wrists until his pulse slowed down. In the wan light of the hotel room, his reflection in the small bathrrom mirror showed him only the barest hints of features: hair, hollows for eyes, a nose, a chin. He looked like a vague memory of a man.

The bed-sheet was cold when he climbed back in, and he lay there staring at the ceiling and couldn’t get back to sleep. After struggling with himself for nearly twenty minutes solid, he finally gave in and dialed Dean’s phone again.

“Hey, it’s me again. I just— uh…” There was a lump in his throat, but he swallowed it down angrily and forced out the rest of his sentence. “I just want to know you’re okay. I know you don’t want to talk to me, or whatever, but if you could just— just let me know you’re okay. You can send a text, or maybe Bobby—”

The phone beeped, cutting him off. _”This voicemail-box is full.”_ said a polite, recorded voice.

Sam's hand shook when he lowered his phone, and he dropped it onto the table. He sat there for a while, watching his phone until it turned itself off. Then he climbed back into bed, and stared through the open bathroom door at the small mirror.

Sleep pulled him under again at some point, thanks to his physical exhaustion. He went right back to the Impala.

Lucifer tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel and then frowned at Sam, shaking his head. “That was the last one, wasn’t it? Every mailbox is full. No more numbers to call.”

“I can call Bobby,” Sam said.

“And he'll just hang up on you again,” Lucifer huffed. “Why are you torturing yourself like this?”

“Because I'm worried about Dean.”

“You think he’s not answering because he's in trouble? You think he's...dead?”

“No. If he was dead, Bobby would’ve told me. He just doesn’t want to talk to me, and he probably changed his phones.”

Lucifer shrugged. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“You know what would help me sleep?” Sam snapped. “Not having the Devil in my brain every time I close my damn eyes.”

The archangel chuckled. “Can’t change that, Sam. It’s all I have, since you won’t tell me where you are. And I have to wonder…” The empty grey around the Impala started to turn a pale orange. “…why is that? You really think I won’t find you eventually? Do you have any idea how many demons are spilling out of Hell every day? In a few more weeks, I will have eyes _everywhere_. I’ll find you, and then you can put an end to all this."

“An end?” Sam scoffed. “What end? You said you wouldn’t let me die!”

“Of course I won’t let you die. I care about you. I want you to be happy.”

The orange sky became a bright cherry red and heavy rain started to fall on the windows, rolling down the glass like thick drops of blood.

"Think about it Sam. Thousands of people possessed every day, all because you won't talk to me face to face. Are you really that much of a coward? Are you so self-obsessed that you think you're worth that kind of sacrifice?" He raised his eyebrows, smirking, "I mean _I_ know you're worth it. I'd kill the whole world to get through to you. I just didn't think you'd be on board with that plan."

Sam said nothing, focusing instead on the window and the red rain outside. It started to leak in through the glass, trickling down the edges and onto the door handle, onto Sam's boot.

"You do know that all you're doing is delaying the inevitable, right?" Lucifer asked.

Sam turned to answer, just in time to see Lucifer melt—his body dissolving into a sea of blood. Sam tried to pull his legs up onto the seat, but then the windows shattered, and the blood rain from outside came through the windows, soaking him in seconds. The smell of sulphur and iron coated his tongue, and he shuddered when a drop landed on his lips.

Sam woke up to rain pelting against the motel room windows.

*******

They found him just outside of Detroit. Sam had been investigating a haunting, and was patching himself up. The ghost had tossed him into a wrought-iron gate at a bad angle, and he'd bashed his elbow pretty thoroughly.

He went out to the ice-machine, and when he came back to his room, there were three black-eyed men waiting by his door.

They parted to let him through as Sam walked inside, then followed him in.

"How did you find me?" Sam asked, his back towards the three demons. He pulled off his over-shirt and held the ice-filled towel against his purpling elbow.

"The gas station on Route 83," said the demon furthest from the door. "We were surprised you didn't notice. Used to be you could smell us miles away."

Sam huffed. "I haven't been able to shake the smell of sulphur since Garber. Guess I thought it was in my head."

"Poor Sam," Lucifer said, appearing suddenly on the edge of his bed. "That's what happens when you deprive yourself."

The three demons sunk to their knees and bowed their heads.

Sam scoffed.

"Don't mock their faith," Lucifer said, looking offended.

“You really expect me to believe you care about them?” Sam walked over to the small table and sat in the chair. It was as far away as he could get from Lucifer without leaving the room. The air had gotten ice-cold, and he let go of the ice pack, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth.

"Why wouldn't I? I created them."

Sam stood, drawing Ruby's knife and stepped towards the demons. They didn’t react, stayed exactly where they were, kneeling with their eyes on the floor. Keeping his focus on Lucifer, Sam stabbed the demon closest to him through the chin, pushing the tip of the knife into the brain. The knife sparked and the demon lit up from inside before flickering out of existence. The other two demons didn’t move. With a Herculean effort, Sam did not look at the blood-slicked blade when he pulled it back out.

“What happened to the sanctity of human life, Sam? You used to care about whether the host lived or died.” The Devil shook his head, his mouth curved down in pity. “If you stopped denying yourself your gift, you could’ve pulled that demon and Donald Garson here would still be alive.”

Sam was so angry he could feel his jaw twitching, but he said nothing.

“Waste of a perfectly good body.” Lucifer tilted his head to the side and a dark cloud of smoke appeared, flooding into the corpse on the carpet. It quivered as the demon took hold and then sat up, blinking first at Sam, then at Lucifer. “I’ve got 61 billion spares, Sam. Care to try again?”

“No. Just leave.” Sam turned away from the newly inhabited Donald Garson, trying not to watch the blood run down the hole in the man's chin.

The archangel laughed and clapped his hands together. “If that’ll make you happy, fine. I know where you are now. I’ve got your _scent_.” He stood and walked towards Sam. “You will never be able to hide yourself from me again. So I’ll leave. I’ll give you a whole day. One thousand, four-hundred and forty minutes. You can say your farewells, write out a list of demands, go to Disneyworld for all I care.” He took another step closer and poked his finger into Sam’s chest. “But tomorrow night I’ll be back, and I will never leave you again.”

Lucifer vanished, taking the three demons with him.

*******

It took Sam twenty minutes to scrub the bloodstain out of the carpet. His hands only shook slightly, and he was thankful that the strong chemical smell of the carpet cleaner almost overpowered the sulphur stink of the blood.

When he stood up again, he got a head rush and realized he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He didn’t have much of an appetite after the events from earlier, but he had to think clearly. It wouldn’t be smart to face the Devil on an empty stomach. Again.

He settled for a small bag of pretzels, an apple and coffee to clear his head. The food did nothing to quiet his stomach, and the caffeine didn't make his thoughts any clearer. There was a park a quarter of a mile from the motel, and before consciously deciding to, Sam had walked there.

He finished the last of the coffee, tossed the empty cup into a trash can, and stood by the side of the small lake, looking at the dark water. Dawn was less than an hour away, and the sky was starting to grow paler, blue grey with pink tinges at the very edge of the horizon.

Sam closed his eyes, and focused on the soft wind, the sound of the trees rustling. Then he prayed to a God he knew didn't care, to an angel that probably hated him, to anyone that would listen.

It was a mistake, but then he'd been making a lot of those lately.

He could feel the pull of angelic power, and opened his eyes hopefully, wondering if Castiel had come after all.

The lake looked different. The sun had come up while his eyes were closed, and the water reflected its image, low and red. Slightly to his left, something was sticking out of the surface of the lake.

It only took Sam three steps to realize he was looking at a decaying arm. He shuddered, and turned away, terror building in his gut.

The trees behind him were still there, but they looked ragged and charred. There'd been a fire here, not too long ago. The ground was still black in places, and a fine layer of ash was mixed in with the brown pine needles.

He walked out of the park, looking warily around him. Everything looked different. He recognized the same landmarks; the gas station where he'd picked up the pretzels was still there, but the pumps were gone, and the little convenience mart was dark, with shattered windows and a busted, lopsided door.

The motel was more or less intact on the outside, but his key didn't work and when he forced open the door, he regretted it immediately. The room stunk of death.

There were two corpses on the bed, clinging to each other. Sam got close enough to see the gunshot wound in the head of the mother before he turned and fled.

He ran for miles, with no idea where he was headed. The surreal world around him mixed with Lucifer's words from earlier and all he could feel was a desperate need to get away. To escape.

He ran until his legs burned and his lungs ached, then he stopped to catch his breath near a bridge.

The bridge was still intact, but it had been blocked off. There was a big military truck parked across the other end, cutting off access to the road. Sam walked closer, curious, and climbed up and over the truck.

When he jumped down the other side he had a clear view of his surroundings. He was on the outskirts of Detroit, according to the sign. There were empty cars on the streets parked haphazardly, most of them with open doors, like whoever had left them there had left in a panic.

Sam walked slowly down the road until he got to the city itself. There wasn't a person to be seen, just empty stores, pigeons and more empty cars.

"What the hell…" Sam muttered to himself as he turned a corner down a side street. A cat scurried along the side of the rust colored brick building on the left, and disappeared down a narrow basement window.

Around the corner was another empty street filled with more empty buildings and so on and so on until finally Sam got to a fence. A crooked sign mounted to it read, 'HOT ZONE — NO ENTRY — 12.28.2013 — BY ORDER OF ACTING REGIONAL COMMAND — Detroit, MI'

"December 28th 2013," Sam read, less concerned by the idea that he'd somehow been torn forward through time than he should have been. The last year had given him a new perspective on what constituted a crisis.

There was a tear in the fence a few feet down, not terribly large, but with some well-angled tugs Sam made the opening large enough for him to slip through.

At first, the fenced-off section of city looked a lot like the rest. After a few minutes alone, Sam saw someone—an injured man limping past him at the other end of the alley he was walking down. Sam jogged until he caught up with the man and called out, "Hey! Excuse me sir, wait a minute!"

The man turned around with eyes so bloodshot they looked pink. His skin was stained with blood and his clothing looked like it had been torn apart by wild dogs.

The man ran at Sam full speed, his bad leg pounding the pavement unevenly like he'd suddenly forgotten he was injured. His mouth was wide open and snarling. When he got close enough he lunged.

Sam dodged the attack, feinting to the left before sliding past the frenzied man towards a dumpster to grab a jagged piece of wood. He grabbed the broken 2X4 and wielded it like a bat, bashing the man in the head. He staggered back dazed, but shook his head and came at Sam again, apparently unaffected by his now broken jawbone.

"The hell…" Sam muttered, before he brought the wooden beam crashing down a second time. This time the man fell to his knees, a significant dent in his head where the wood had broken through skull. When he pushed himself back up on his hands and stared up at Sam with hungry eyes, a long-buried memory clicked into place. "Croatoan virus, " Sam said, before turning to run.

It took him nearly five minutes to get out of the hot zone, and he only got away because he stopped long enough to grab one of the infected people chasing him and throw them at the other three. Something about the impact distracted them long enough to turn on each other. By the time Sam was scrambling over the fence, all four were tearing each other apart.

Less than 300 feet out of town, Sam found an abandoned car with the key still in the ignition. He got in and drove until he found a highway on-ramp. The radio stations were mostly static, and the only one that worked was a news-station looping two things over and over: the weather forecast _thirty-two degrees high, ten degrees low overnight_ , and the latest statistics on the 'C-Virus' Philadelphia, the last East Coast city to be evacuated, has been officially declared a Hot Zone as well, estimated death toll of the virus is now over two and a half million, please make sure to visit the CDC's info page at cdc dot gov for the latest updates and tips on how to protect yourself from infection…

Sam's eyes stung when he blinked and his heart thumped unpleasantly in his chest. His instincts were still screaming at him to call Dean, but the chances of his brother picking up now were even slimmer than they'd been back in his own time. The radio flared to life again and Sam heard the faint strains of a pipe organ in the background just before the whole stereo system sparked and died.

"Shoddy manufacturing," Zachariah said, appearing in the passenger seat next to him. "They just don't build 'em the way they used to."

Sam ground his teeth together. "Is this your doing?"

"This?" Zachariah raised his eyebrows. "This utopian future where nearly every consumable product is free assuming you get your hands on it first and nobody shows up to try to kill you? No, I can't take credit for this. That's all you, buddy."

"Did you bring me here?" Sam asked, hating the angel more with every word. Like he didn't already have his hands full with Lucifer following him around. "Are you working with Lucifer?"

Zachariah brought a hand to his chest. "Me? Work for the Serpent? Come on Sam, no need to get nasty."

"Then why am I here?" Sam asked, shifting lanes towards the next exit. He wasn't going to keep driving with the angel in the car. Even though he hadn't seen another soul driving, he felt more comfortable trying to get away from Zachariah on a local road. "You gonna kill me again?"

"We both know that wouldn't do any good," Zachariah said, showing teeth. "I brought you here, that much is true. But I did it for your benefit. I'm not entirely unsympathetic to your plight, Sam. You got a raw deal."

Sam fought the urge to take his hands off the wheel and throttle the angel. "So…what? You brought me to the future to show me what happens if I say "yes" to Lucifer?"

Zachariah scoffed, "Is that what you think this is? No, no, no. _This_ is what happens if you don't."

Sam turned the steering wheel a bit too forcefully at that, sending the tires squealing as he compensated by hitting the brakes, just barely staying inside the borders of the off-ramp. He pulled onto the local road, still trying to process what Zachariah had said.

"Ooh, stop here!" Zachariah said, pointing out the window at an empty Starbucks parking lot. "I like their lattes."

"No," Sam muttered, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead. "There's nobody there anyway."

"Oh ye of little faith," Zachariah said before vanishing.

Sam felt his heart skip a beat as his jumbled thoughts fought for priority. He pulled into the next parking lot he came across and put the car in park. There was no point in running. Zachariah could find him here, no matter where he went. He'd found him once.

"Lot of good these carvings did," Sam said to himself, rubbing a hand over his ribs. Lucifer had either passed on his whereabouts, or undone Castiel's spell work. Whatever the case, until he found the materials to make up a new angel-warding hex-bag he wasn't going to lose Zachariah's tail.

It had started to rain—fat drops dotting the dusty windshield, and Sam's thoughts drifted to the Impala, wondering where it was. Where Dean was.

"They even gave me an extra shot of vanilla!" Zachariah said, smiling smugly as he reappeared next to Sam holding a large coffee cup. He'd taken the lid off and was inhaling the scent coming off of the milk foam.

Sam ignored him and turned the car back on. "There was nobody in that store. Did you grab some baristas from 2010 too?"

"Something like that," Zachariah said, as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips.

Sam stepped on the brakes with just enough force to send the hot liquid sloshing onto the angel's face.

Zachariah sputtered angrily and the car disappeared.

Sam found himself sitting on thin air for a split second before landing on his ass on a thick, cream-colored carpet. They were in a hotel room—much better quality than what he was used to. There was a leather couch and a king-sized bed, and from what he could see from where he was sitting, a balcony looking out over a city.

"Very mature," Zachariah said, wiping the foam from his nose and chin with the handkerchief from his suit pocket. He put his coffee cup down on the polished table and frowned at Sam. "Sit with me."

"No," Sam said, as he pushed himself to his feet.

"Oh for Pete's sake," the angel gestured at the seat across from him and tapped his fingers against the shiny surface of the table. "I didn't forget about you."

A second cup of coffee appeared across from him with the name 'Sam,' scrawled on it in black Sharpie.

"Caramel mocha half-caf, no foam…just the way you like it," Zachariah said, forcing a polite smile that looked like it hurt.

Sam turned his back on the angel and moved towards the balcony. The moment he opened the glass doors, he knew that they were back in his own time. Cars honking, people talking…the sounds of the city were loud, and normal. Human.

"Just sit," Zachariah said, his voice a touch colder. "I can always zap us back to the future if you need some more visual aids."

Despite the anger curdling in his stomach, Sam walked back to the table and sat in the empty chair.

The angel folded his hands and fake-smiled again. "I understand what you're trying to do, Sam. You think that somehow you refusing Lucifer will stop the Apocalypse."

Sam kept his eyes focused on the tabletop. It had a swirling pattern in it. Barely noticeable at first glance, but the more he looked, the more the whorls and curves looked like feathers.

"It's a noble thought, but I gotta tell you champ, you're too late."

Sam's eyes flicked up to Zachariah's.

"You already opened the floodgates. The end times are here." The angel raised his hands to his sides, palms out. "The problem is that right now we've got nothing but bench-hitters in place of our MVPs. We're gonna go into extra-innings— _decades_ of slaughter—if you don't get over yourself and accept your fate."

"My fate. You mean to be the Devil's meatsuit?"

Zachariah's smile tightened. "To be _Lucifer's_ meatsuit." He clasped his hands, touching the tips of his pointer fingers together. "I'm asking you to say 'yes.' Help us end this, Sam. Don't let your own arrogance drag out a battle that could've already been over and take the whole planet down with it."

It had been easier when the angel had tried to kill him outright. His current sales pitch was a whole lot harder to stomach. “I thought you wanted _Dean_ to say yes,” Sam said.

“We do, and I have no doubt he will. But not until _you_ play your part.”

“Dean will never—”

“Really? You so sure about that? See I think that the only way he’ll step up is if we make this excruciatingly personal.” Zachariah leaned back in his chair and pointed at Sam. “When Lucifer is wearing your face, Dean won’t have a choice but to intervene.” His lips curved. “You know it’s funny. When I first suggested this plan the others laughed at me. Everyone said you two would never turn on each other. Never.”

Sam turned away from the angel’s smug stare and looked out the window. It was raining again, and the sky was getting grayer by the minute.

“But after what you did? After the demon blood, and the lies, and—oh yeah—setting the Devil free, I think Dean’s finally starting to come to his senses." The angel snorted and added. "The irony of course is that he would've forgiven you for all of that. That twisted codependency thing you two have going? It only works when it's mutual."

The bitter taste in Sam's mouth grew stronger. He knew exactly what Zachariah would say next.

"It was Ruby he couldn't forgive you for. You went and trusted a demon. Trusted her over Dean." The angel took another big sip of his coffee and smacked his lips in satisfaction. "When I heard you and your brother were Splitsville, I have to admit, I breathed a sigh of relief.”

Since Lucifer’s visit, the undercurrent of anger in the back of Sam’s mind had been stronger than ever. At first, Zachariah had just made it worse, but now Sam wasn’t angry at all anymore. He felt weird. Deflated. Because the angel was right. He was right.

“Dean will do the right thing. He’ll stop you, because he’s the only one who can.” Zachariah winked at him, and disappeared.

After a minute of complete silence, Sam walked to the desk by the balcony, grabbed the hotel pad of paper and gold-tipped pen and started to write.

Exactly six hours later, he said "yes," to Lucifer.

 

******************************************


	2. Chapter 2

Dean woke up to his insides being torn apart. Even before he opened his eyes, he knew he wasn't in Hell, because you couldn't sleep in Hell.

Once he opened his eyes, he was even more sure. Hell had never been this clean. The ceiling above him was the polished kind of latex white normally only reserved for hospitals or brand new office buildings. What felt like a dagger tearing at his leg brought his attention back down to his own body. His hands clutched uselessly at the air as he watched long gashes form up the length of his torso, giant claws tearing him apart one after the other.  _Hellhound,_  he thought, as the pain intensified. But when Dean reached out for where the hound's head should have been, he touched nothing but air.

Defying all logic, the non-existent hound tore into Dean again, this time with razor-sharp teeth. The teeth felt the same, just like they had years ago when Lilith had come to collect him. But the burning stench of the hellhound's sulfurous breath was completely absent. Dean didn't even feel a trace of an exhale against his flesh. There was no hound, just the injuries it had given him reforming violently like a nightmare made real. He cried out as the pain grew again and waited for the reprieve of death.

It came hours later than it should have.

****

" —sorry," Sam's voice said.

Dean blinked into the harsh light above and turned his head until he saw his brother's worried face looking down at him.

"Sorry, almost done." Sam brought his teeth down near Dean's stomach and bit through the piece of thread he'd used to stitch the shredded skin back together.

Confused, Dean tried to orient himself. "Where are we? What happened?"

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched and sorrow flickered across his features. He swallowed it back, in typical Sam fashion, but his eyes were glassy. "Hellhound."

Dean sat up, or tried to and then immediately regretted it. "No. I mean yeah—scratches, teeth, they're all hound material, but there was no—" His sentence was interrupted by a coughing fit.

Like he'd been waiting for it, Sam slid his arm gently behind Dean's back and helped him sit up just enough to take a sip from a water bottle. The thin plastic crinkled in his grip, sending way too much into Dean's mouth.

Coughing again, Dean pulled back and held up his hand, grabbing onto Sam's arm for support as he pushed himself further upright, wincing through the pain until he was propped up against the white wall behind him. His vision flickered in and out as his body protested the movement, but he focused on Sam until it steadied again.

"You'll be okay. I know it looks bad, and it hurts, but—" Sam chewed on his lip for a second. "Dean, I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Dean said, grimacing as he shifted slightly. Oddly enough, the pain was already diminishing. Through the tatters of his shirt he thought he saw the skin right next to where his bellybutton used to be start to close. Impossible, but then his brain wasn't exactly working at 100%, too much blood loss and internal damage. He still had no idea where they were or what had even happened before he got attacked. "Where are we?"

"Detroit," Sam said, eyeing Dean strangely.

"What are we hunting?"

The huff that left Sam's mouth was far too bitter to be a laugh. He stood stiffly and put his hand against the wall, letting his head hang down.

"Look man, I can't remember a damn thing, okay? Whatever got me, got me good, so can you give me the CliffsNotes?"

Sam's lips were pinched and he squeezed his eyes shut for a second before focusing on Dean again. "We're not hunting anything."

"Okay…then how'd I get hurt?" Dean asked. "Hex-bag? Some kind of random mojo?"

"Not random." Sam flexed his right hand. His fingers were shaking just enough to be noticeable. "It's my fault. I'm the reason you're hurt." He turned away, pacing in the empty white room.

Dean followed Sam's movements, waiting for him to explain. He looked out of place against the sterile walls of the room. His white t-shirt and jeans were soaked with Dean's blood—hopefully just Dean's.

"Where are we, then? Hospital? Gotta be a hospital. No windows." Dean's eyes tracked around the room and he squinted at the far corner, partially hidden by shadow. "No door?"

Sam shook his head and stopped pacing. "Not until our time's up."

"Our time?" Dean's throat tightened, the sheer misery in Sam's voice and stance putting him on edge.

Slowly, Sam turned back to Dean. He met his eyes for a quarter-second and then went back to staring at the floor. He crossed his arms and spoke, so quietly Dean had to strain to hear. "We get an hour and six minutes."

"Until what?" Dean asked.

"Until you fall asleep again," Sam said.

He sounded angry and scared, and Dean had no idea what to say. "So get me some coffee. I won't fall asleep."

"It doesn't matter. We tried that last time, and it didn't—"

"What do you mean last time?" Dean sat up further, then wondered why he wasn't doubling over in pain. He looked down at his wounds and froze. The largest of the gashes, the one that had run nearly all the way up to his collarbone last time he'd checked, was completely healed. "Sammy, what the hell's going on?"

"I fucked up!" Sam yelled, throwing his arms out to his sides. "I tried to fight back again and now…" He gestured at Dean, and then let his hands drop. They were shaking noticeably.

"What's wrong with your hands?" Dean asked, nodding his chin towards Sam's fingers.

Sam stared at him incredulously. "My hands are fine."

"Really? 'Cause you're shaking like you drank a gallon of espresso." Dean pushed against the floor and tried to stand. His thigh twinged where a wound was still closing, but he got himself up on his feet and took a step towards Sam.

"It's nothing," Sam said.

Dean narrowed his eyes, and gave his brother his best  _I can see through your bull-shit_  look.

"It doesn't matter. What matters is this—this has to stop," Sam said, breaking Dean's gaze again.

"Well, it'd be good to get out of this creepy-ass room for starters. Want to work on that first?"

Sam scoffed. "We can't. Well,  _you_  can't."

That was odd. "But you can?" Dean looked around the room again. He started to feel dizzy as he began walking forwards. His right knee buckled completely as his vision started to tunnel. There was a buzzing in his ears that grew louder and louder until it was all he could hear.

Sam rushed to his side and put his arm behind Dean's back, lowering him gently to the floor.

******

"They were just children, and I couldn't— I knew this would happen, but I just couldn't let him…"

Sam's voice trailed off as Dean woke, blinking up at the white ceiling. "Sam?" Dean asked. He propped himself up on his elbows. When he saw the look on Sam's face‚ the dried tears and bloodshot eyes, he rushed to his side. "What happened?" He tried to remember where they were. The room they were in was familiar: the strange sterile walls, the emptiness of it. There was nothing in here—no bed, no door, not even a chair. They'd been here before though. He was pretty sure they'd been here for a few days at least.

His brother was turned away from him, his large frame folded together as he sat with his legs drawn in close to his chest. His chin was resting on his knees and his eyes had closed.

"Sam, what happened?" Dean asked again, trying to get his attention.

"I— I stopped him," Sam said. He sniffed and raised his head, turning to Dean. "For a little while, anyway. They got away but they're still alive. At least…I think they are."

"Who's 'they'?" Dean asked. "How'd you even get out of here? There's no friggin' door." He was getting frustrated. He had no idea where this room was, how they'd gotten here in the first place. All he remembered was that a few days ago he'd been hurt—bad. There'd been big gashes across his chest and legs and Sam had stitched him back together, and then they'd healed so damn fast it wasn't right. It couldn't be real. "Are we dreaming? Did we get whammied or something? You're not making sense. None of this makes sense." He stood up, suddenly angry and started to circle the room. No windows, no doors, the wall was the same even shade of white the entire way around. "Who stuck us in here? One of the angels? Is this one of their green rooms?"

"No." Sam pushed himself to his feet. "It's your cell."

Dean's stomach clenched unpleasantly, almost too strong to just be a reaction to Sam's words. "You mean  _our_  cell?" he gritted out as the pain intensified.

"Dammit. Not yet," Sam said, moving closer to Dean. "He said he'd give me time to explain."

The pain in Dean's stomach receded as another lance of agony tore through him, this time straight through his ribs, right by his heart. Dean's hand flew up reflexively and his fingers came away bloody. There was a bullet-hole in his chest. "Sam…" _what's happening?_  He fell to the floor, gasping for air. Something was stuck in his throat. If he'd still had the ability to scream he would have as all of his bones shattered—an impossibly heavy invisible weight falling down on him. He should have been dead already five times over, but he wasn't.

"Stop!" Sam yelled into the empty room. "Stop doing this!"

Dean tried to turn to Sam, tried to see who he was yelling at but he couldn't move. The bullet-wound in his chest ached as it started to close and he could already feel his bones reknitting. For whatever reason, his injuries weren't permanent. Maybe because of the weirdo room they were in, or maybe something else was going on. That didn't make the pain any less. He could feel his toes again, and as soon as he found he could move them, they began to tickle and then spark. Lightning traveled up his legs and through his entire body, causing him to arch his head back. He bit his tongue as he thrashed and distantly, he could feel Sam trying to turn him on his side.

"Stop," Sam said more quietly. "Please, stop."

And just like that, Dean's body stopped. Everything stopped.

******

He was in Hell. It had to be Hell, because he remembered this: the tear of the hooks in his flesh, the endless heat running up and down his skin, little flames that hurt but never burned the skin enough to deaden it. This felt familiar, this felt like forever.

His shoulder was about to tear, the hook embedded in it so tautly strung that his skin was separating itself from his muscle. He turned into the tear, trying to keep the tissue together, but that only pulled the hook in his abdomen harder. He clenched his teeth together hard, tired of screaming and forced his body to still, letting himself drift back to center. A fly in a spiderweb of pointed metal.

He thought he heard Sam's voice, but it couldn't be Sam, because Sam wasn't in Hell. He'd done this for Sam, he was here so Sam could live, so it wasn't Sam's voice. It was just some demon fucking with him, using his brother's voice as another hook in his soul.

"I'm sorry," Sam's voice said.

 _"You're not him, you're not him,"_  Dean said under his breath.

"You're not in Hell. This isn't—this isn't Hell. You got out, remember?" Sam's voice said, and the inflections were so convincing, but it wasn't Sam, no matter how badly Dean wanted to hear his voice.

"This  _is_  Hell. You seriously think I'm gonna believe you're my brother?" Dean growled as the hook in his shoulder finally tore through. His body dropped a half foot, hanging by the hook in his gut for a split second before that tore too, just from his weight. He hung by his ankles, upside down, dangling as his limbs brushed layers of heated metal chains. Underneath the tangled mess was a white floor, spotless and empty except for one person standing right beneath him— person who looked a whole lot like Sam. Even if it wasn't him. He looked so much like him. "Sammy? Why are you here? You can't be here."

"We're not in Hell," said the Sam-demon.

"You got me out?" Dean tried to remember, but his brain felt like it was on fire and all he could remember was pain, months, years, decades of metal and flame.

Sam, or the thing that looked like him, hung his head. "No. I wasn't strong enough to get you out...I'm never strong enough." He peered up at Dean with shining eyes. "Cas got you out."

"Who?" The chains below him came to life as he bled on them and started moving, eager for another taste. They snaked their way up his legs, over his torso and finally wrapped around his face. Two hooks dug into his eyes and pulled, blinding him instantly. He screamed as a whole new agony filled him, and thought he heard Sam shouting his name again, but it couldn't be Sam.

*******

Sam was crying. Quietly, but Dean knew the sound, intimately attuned to it since they'd been kids—nose sniffling, inhalations that sounded more like muted gasps then breaths.

Though Dean couldn't remember where they were or why Sam had any reason to be upset, he knew something was off the second he opened his eyes, which ached oddly, like he'd spent too long lying under the sun. The walls were far too clean to be a hotel room, and no matter where he looked, he couldn't find a source of light, even though he could see. He didn't cast a shadow when he stood.

Sam was sitting on the opposite side of the empty room, his long legs bent, arms wrapped around them. His hair was unwashed and speckled with dust like he'd been in a construction site.

"You okay?" Dean asked as he got closer.

Sam wrapped his arms tighter and kept his eyes closed, chin resting on his knees.

Dean let himself sink down next to Sam and scooted over until their shoulders were touching. His brother's thin t-shirt was soaked with sweat like he'd been running for hours on end. "Hey," Dean said, tapping his knee against Sam's.

A few strands of Sam's hair were plastered to the side of his face when he lifted his head, blinking as if he wasn't sure Dean was there.

"What happened? Did we get whammied or something? I don't remem—"

"Two million, four hundred ten thousand, three hundred and sixty-eight dead," Sam said, his voice rough.

"Whoa, what—"

"Because of me. I haven't lost count. I want to, though…but I can't because I know everything, because  _he_  knows everything…" Sam's voice trailed off as he rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. He turned his eyes down to the floor and brought his chin back onto his knees.

Dean swallowed, racking his brain, trying to find some clue about where they were, about what had happened. There was a bad fog where his memories should be, like a hangover, only without the headache and queasiness. "Sam, what are you talking about?" His gaze wandered around the room, and when he saw the sterile white ceiling he shuddered without really knowing why.

"After last week…what he did to you, I just couldn't—" Sam lifted his head and took a slow steadying breath. "I couldn't watch you go through that again." He met Dean's eyes again. "So I didn't fight. I let him…I  _let_  him tear those cities apart." His breath hitched. "I had no idea how much I'd been holding him back until I stopped."

"Who's  _he_?" Dean asked, frantically trying to put the pieces back together. "Who's hurting you?" A flash came then, a memory of a blinding light, of wicked eyes. "Yellow-eyes?" No that wasn't right, because he was dead, bullet to the head. "Ruby…" No, because he'd killed her too.

Sam shook his head, clenching his eyes shut.

"Lucifer…" Dean said as he remembered a portal cracking open and the light of an archangel pouring out towards them. The white of the room grew a thousand times brighter and the fog in Dean's mind became a leaden blanket, until it forced him completely under.

*******

"I don't know what to do," Sam said.

Dean opened his eyes and found Sam sitting across from him, cross-legged. He pushed himself up off the floor, trying to remember how he'd gotten there. He'd fallen. Or he'd been shot, or crushed or something.

"I can't keep doing this to you."

"Doing what?" Dean asked, looking around at the white room. Hospital, maybe. But no, there weren't any beds. "Where are we?"

"It's getting worse," Sam said as he lifted his head. There were dark bags under his eyes and his skin was vaguely grey. "It's getting harder to fight back. I'm trying. I'm still trying, but I don't know how much longer I can."

"Look, I must've gotten knocked on the head or something. Seriously, I have no idea what's going on."

Sam's face twisted, misery making him look young and lost. "He says it's better for me if you don't remember. That you'd hate me if you knew. He says he's doing it for me."

"Who does?" The sorrow Dean saw in Sam's eyes was deeper than any he'd known before, and that was in a lifetime filled with heartache.

"Lucifer. You don't remember anything because Lucifer is making you forget," Sam said. The green in his eyes was lighter than usual and for a split second they flashed yellow. "But I want you to remember."

And just like that, Dean did. He remembered everything with startling clarity: they'd parted ways because they thought that would keep Lucifer and Michael away from them, but then Sam…Sam had said 'yes' to Lucifer. He'd let the Devil in and given him his perfect vessel. That on its own was enough for Dean to chew on, but his brain kept filling with other things he didn't want to know—memories of this room, hundreds of days (or nights not like he could tell) waking up screaming or bleeding or both, never dying, just suffering, while Sam spewed a litany of apologies by his side. Sam had stitched him up, held him while invisible weapons tore into him. Sometimes he'd tell Dean what he'd done to incur Lucifer's wrath that day. It happened anytime Sam protested, anytime he fought Lucifer for control of his body. The Devil had kept Dean alive for Sam, but he held that over Sam's head every hour of every day. Any resistance on Sam's part, no matter how small, resulted in agony for Dean.

"How long?" Dean asked, once he got his voice to work again.

Sam shook his head, his eyes downcast. "I'm not sure. I know it was winter when I said yes, and the trees are just starting to change color again."

"There's still trees?" Dean smirked half-heartedly. "Thought they'd all be kindling by now."

"He likes trees," Sam said. "He likes just about everything that's not human, demon or angel."

"Really?" Dean thought for a second. "Even geese?"

Sam stared at his brother.

"They're really annoying. And mean. I'm just sayin'"

"You don't know what it's like out there," Sam said, averting his eyes again. "There's so much ash in the air, and it's—" He choked on his next words for a second, steadied himself and went on, his voice wavering only slightly. "He makes this— this living fire. It only targets people, nothing else. He sent a river of it up and down the entire Appalachian Trail just to wipe out the hikers. Everything else survived, even the deer. They were pretty spooked though."

Dean slid closer to Sam, until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder. There was heat pouring off Sam in waves, even though he was dressed in nothing but a thin t-shirt and jeans. "So how do we stop it? How do we stop him?"

"We don't," Sam scoffed. "The only one who can stop him is Michael."

"So why hasn't he?" Dean asked. "Too chicken-shit?"

"He tried. Three times, actually," Sam said. "The last time he was wearing Adam."

Dean stared a him blankly

"Adam Milligan," Sam said.

"Our half-brother? Our very dead, eaten by ghouls half-brother? That Adam?"

Sam nodded.

"I thought I was the only vessel Michael wanted," Dean grumbled. It wasn't bad enough that their lives were cursed because of the angels, now their half-brother had gotten messed up in it all too.

"When I said yes, Michael panicked. He was planning on abducting you, doing whatever he had to until you gave in, but he can't find you."

Dean pointed at his chest. "Because of the scratches on our ribs?"

"No." Sam looked up at the empty ceiling. "Lucifer hiding you here was part of my agreement with him. I made him swear you'd be off of Heaven's radar for good. I made him swear you'd be safe."

The ludicrousness of the statement took a few seconds to sink in.

"So, me being shot and clawed apart by hellhounds and back in Hell...that's safe?

"You'll never die from any of it." Sam's face twisted in anger mixed with misery. "You're always healed before our time's up." He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "As far as Lucifer's concerned, he's following the terms of our agreement to the letter."

"Is he still in there? Right now, I mean?" Dean asked, cocking an eyebrow. It hadn't even occurred to him to ask until that moment.

Sam shook his head. "No. I'm alone" His eyes flicked up to Dean. "That's why we only get forty-three minutes. Might be a little less actually, I'm not really sure." His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "We have however long I can last without him."

Dean's stomach turned to ice. "What?"

"I…I can't survive without him anymore. Not for long, anyway." Sam ran his hand through his hair again, and now Dean noticed the way his fingers shook, the beads of sweat on his brow. He looked like death.

"Is it—" Dean's mouth filled with bile at just the thought. "Is it demon blood?"

Sam scoffed. "Doesn't do a thing for me anymore. It's like a drop in the bucket." His voice went colorless. "No, he's moved onto something much stronger and now, without him inside, my body starts to tear itself apart."

"Isn't that just shooting himself in the foot? I mean, he  _needs_  you, right?"

"Yeah, but if I die, he just brings me back and when he's inside of me…" Sam shook his head. "Dean, he's getting stronger."

"Than you?"

"Than  _everyone_." The certainty in Sam's voice was unsettling enough, but when he started to blink back tears, Dean's heart sank even lower. "He's not feeding me demon blood anymore Dean, he's feeding me angel blood."

Dean swallowed. "And…what does angel blood do to you?"

"I've always been…something like an amplifier for his power, I guess. That's why Azazel did what he did—not just so I could be Lucifer's vessel, but so I'd make him even stronger." Sam's voice shook as he continued. "He's smart. He knew he'd be facing off against not just Michael but the whole Host, so he had to make sure he could stand against all of them." His eyes were wide and frozen open, his gaze somewhere else completely. "I'm the end game, Dean." He pulled in a sharp, stuttering breath. "When he's done razing Earth, Heaven's next. There will be nothing left but Hell."

Far past the point of despair, Dean struggled for some kind of response.

"Say yes," Sam said, so quietly Dean was sure he'd imagined it.

"What?"

"I left the door open a crack. Just enough for Michael to hear you. Say yes. Sam wrapped his long fingers around Dean's hands and met his eyes. "Please. Do it now." His face twisted in a grimace. "Stop this. Stop me."

"If I say yes, you die," Dean said just as quietly, but forcefully enough to get his point across. Hopefully.

"Please," Sam said again. He pulled his hands away and his arms were shaking now, tremors running all the way up to his shoulders. He pushed himself up and his tall frame wavered like it would keel over. He started walking towards the door, putting his hand against the wall to support himself.

"Sam, wait! Where are you going?"

Sam kept shuffling forwards and stopped, right before the faint outline of a door along the far wall, just long enough to turn around and say, "It hurts too much. I'm sorry."

Dean stood and ran after him, his hand stretched out, desperate to keep his brother with him.

The door in the wall glowed as Sam touched it and he vanished instantly, leaving Dean behind.

 

*******

Dean didn't know how long he sat alone in the empty room. He spent hours pacing, checking every inch of wall to see if he could find another crack that would let him out. He tried punching the wall, kicking it, even throwing himself against it, but it wouldn't give.

He finally sat, leaning against the wall again, frustrated and exhausted. After a while, his eyes drifted shut and he wondered, not for the first time, if this place had some kind of sleeping gas feed. The room had a way of making him tired so quickly, almost like someone was willing him to sleep.

He woke up again to light. There was a noticeable door in the wall across from him this time—not just an outline, but an actual door that was still wide open. Dean couldn't see much detail outside, only a solid white glare. It looked almost like it was snowing.

Sam was walking towards him, his silhouette framed by the light coming from the door. Dean blinked up at Sam as he got closer, trying to remember how long he'd been gone. His stance was different: shoulders no longer hunched over but rolled back, his head held high. His footsteps were nearly weightless, like he'd shrugged off the heavy mantle of sorrow that had been weighing him down more every day. He stopped two feet away from Dean and surveyed him with cold eyes.

"You're not Sam," Dean said.

Lucifer didn't respond, but kept watching him. His body had gone completely still. He didn't breathe or blink or move at all for seconds. It was unnerving.

"What? You got tired of cutting me up from far away? Wanted to get a nice front-row seat? What've you got for me today, hmm? Some more evisceration, or invisible poltergeists with guns?" Dean stood up, tired of feeling like a caged animal. Even standing as tall as he could, he still had to to tilt his chin up slightly up to meet his brother's eyes. They were the same hazel-green as always, but nothing about them felt like Sam. Channeling the rage in the pit of his stomach he moved a step closer, determined not to show fear. "What do you get from this, exactly? You think it's gonna make Sam stop fighting? It won't. He's  _better_  than you. He always has been. So go ahead. Do your worst, you son of a bitch."

Dean expected to be slammed against the wall with a thought. He expected to be torn into pieces one inch of skin at a time. Lucifer had created all demons, had created  _Alistair_  so anything the master torturer had learned he'd learned because of Lucifer. He braced himself for pain beyond anything he'd ever known, his heart beating faster with every passing second.

But all Lucifer did was turn his head and walk past Dean. He went to the same corner Dean had come to favor, sat down and leaned against the wall, stretching Sam's long legs straight out. He crossed one leg over the other and slouched, folding his arms across his chest and lowering his chin like he was settling in for a nap.

As hard as Dean tried to stay focused on the Devil he couldn't help but notice that the door was still open. If he had some way of getting the Devil out of his brother's body right now, this could be it: they could get away. Sure, the world had gone to shit, but it had been heading that way for a long time. At least they'd still have each other. That's all they ever had, really.

Dean came to a decision. It wasn't an easy one, but he couldn't think of another way out.

With one eye still on the door, he decided he might as well try talking to Sam directly one last time. There was no doubt in his mind that Lucifer could hear every thought in his head if he was listening, so if he hadn't stopped him yet, he wasn't going to. Maybe he didn't think Dean was a threat. His mistake. "Sam, you're still in there. I know you are. I'm gonna get him out of you. You just hang on, okay? Just keep fighting and I'll be back. I'm gonna fix this."

Lucifer scoffed then, more derisively than Sam had ever managed, which was pretty impressive, all things considered.

"Something funny?" Dean asked, unable to bite his tongue.

"You can't fix this. The fact that you still think you can amuses me."

Dean's fingers curled into a fist but he kept his focus, turned his back on Lucifer and walked out the door.

*******

The world outside was pale and filled with smoke. Dean clenched his eyes shut as they started to tear and walked forwards blindly. "I'm gonna fix this, Sammy."

There were only two routes available to him. Option one: become Michael's vessel. Option two: convince Michael to help him get Lucifer out of Sam and back into his cage.

Everything he'd heard and read about Michael made it highly unlikely that he'd ever back down from the plan, but then they'd never talked one on one. There was one thing Dean was banking on and if he was right, then Sam and everyone else left on the planet still had a fighting chance.

Michael was an archangel, the strongest of them all. He was God's right hand, but he was also Lucifer's brother. Dean's only chance was that being a brother meant even a fraction as much to Michael as it did to him.

Dean glared up into the ashen sky, fell to his knees and began to pray.

*******

Dean didn't give up easily, especially when it came to Sam. Failure wasn't an option. So despite the complete lack of response from above, he tried again and again for nearly two hours solid.

He didn't stop until he had to, until he'd nearly lost his voice from yelling. Logically, he knew that angels could hear their vessels regardless of volume, but he'd stopped listening to logic ages ago. They were living in madness, and the laws of the universe itself were changing.

On autopilot, Dean's body stood up and his legs started walking back towards the white room. He'd gone through all the facts in his mind over and over and come to one conclusion, one that lay heavy in his gut and made his knees shake.

The sky had grown dusk-tinged, backlighting the horizon in a shade of orange that bled slowly into violet. Dean walked back the way he'd come, taking in his surroundings with a detached sort of calm. There were no other people around, not even corpses. Whatever fires had torn through the area had long since burnt out, leaving behind scorched store fronts: hardware stores, a medical supply shop, and a veterinarian's office. This had been some kind of small Main Street back in the day.

The building the white room was in looked ordinary enough on the outside. Well, ordinary in a post-apocalyptic sort of way. It was an old apartment complex, with three stone steps leading up to a worn, wooden door. Dean wrapped his hand around the knob and turned.

The white room was just as he'd left it, and once he stepped through he half-expected the door to close behind him. It didn't—there was still a clear outline of a door-frame along the wall, mocking him with false promise.

On the other side of the room, Lucifer sat, watching Dean's every move.

With a deep breath, Dean steeled himself and crossed the floor. He sat down across from Sam, and met the Devil's gaze. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Neither am I," Lucifer answered.

"I was talking to Sam," Dean said, forcing his mouth into half-smile. No matter how long it took, he'd get through to Sam. He'd bring him back to the forefront and then they'd figure out a way to get Lucifer out. Michael might have bailed on him, but that didn't mean there wasn't another way.

There was always another way.

*******


	3. Chapter 3

They sat in silence for a long time, which had never been something Dean had been particularly good at. Maybe in the Impala—driving down the highway for hours upon hours, sure, after a while conversation stopped—even between him and Sam, but that's what music was for. There was no music here, no road and only one thing to talk about. And Dean was losing patience. He stood up and began to pace the room, walking past the door to outside a few times, eyes flicking back between the door and Lucifer, still inside of Sam, still immobile like he had nothing better to do then sit there and watch Dean sweat.  
  
"You knew it wouldn't work. That's why you left the door open, right? So I could scream myself hoarse trying to get your brother's attention." Dean crouched down across from the archangel and tried to meet his eyes. Sam's eyes. "He ignored me. Michael's just as big a dick as you, I guess. Must run in the family."  
  
Sam's large fingers closed around Dean's throat before he even saw him move. He picked Dean up by the throat like he weighed nothing, closing his fingers just a little tighter.  
  
Dean struggled for air immediately, his own weight working against him as gravity pulled him down. Sam's knuckle pressed up into the soft tissue just behind his jaw bone, and Dean started to see stars.  
  
" _Don't_  talk about Michael like that," Lucifer said, Sam's eyes alight with rage.  
  
Half a second later, Dean found himself on the floor, hand to his aching throat as he gasped for air. "Why not?" he growled, voice barely audible. "Because only you get to?"  
  
Lucifer made a very Sam-like noise—something between a sharp laugh and a choked back sob. "Because he's dead. That's why he didn't answer you."  
  
Dean's anger deflated, replaced by shock. "You killed him?"  
  
For a moment, Dean thought he'd gone to far. The look in the Devil's eyes promised annihilation, and in his case looks could most definitely kill. Then he ran his fingers through his hair, and looked so much like Sam , Dean thought his brother had taken the wheel again.  
  
"No." His voice was quiet, not angry anymore but heavy with sorrow. "I didn't kill my brother. Sam did." He slumped back down against the wall, and watched Dean, like he was waiting for an answer.  
  
"Come again?" Dean asked.  
  
"Your brother—" Lucifer stopped and his lips curled up in a half-snarl. "He was smart. Very smart, for a human."  
  
"Yeah. Newsflash: Sam's not a lightweight in the brains department. What's your point?" Dean asked, trying to squash down the uneasy feeling in his gut.  
  
"A true vessel is more than just a body for us," Lucifer said, holding out Sam's hands and staring down at them like they were something wondrous. "It's the perfect conduit. It not only lets us interact with this world in a very focused, physical way, but it lets us experience things the way you do. Feel, smell, taste—like a human." He met Dean's eyes again just long enough to add. "It's disgusting. At least, I thought so at first."  
  
"Of course you did."  
  
"But we ask for permission. That's the key. The human soul and body agree to become one with us." He flexed Sam's fingers and then folded them in, making fists. "Sam agreed. He said 'yes,' and we became one whole."  
  
Dean's sense of queasiness came roaring back. He fought back the urge to grab his brother's shoulders and shake him until Lucifer left his eyes, but that wouldn't help either of them. He had to be patient.  
  
"I learned from him…and he learned from me."  
  
"You really, like the sound of your own voice, don't you?" Dean said.  
  
"My voice was all I had to keep me company for millennia," Lucifer said, and kept right on going. "I gave Sam a gift when he was very young. Made him strong. With enough practice and the right kind of fuel he could have been as strong as me." He smiled then, sadly. "Together we were unstoppable. My power and his fed each other." His eyes turned upwards and he looked at the ceiling. "My brethren sent legions after me…but everyone that stood against me fell. Every single one."  
  
"You slaughtered your family. Goodie on you."  
  
Lucifer glared at Dean, who admonished himself yet again for being unable to control his tongue.  
  
"I  _defended_  myself. I was defending myself, that's all. And then Michael…" He swallowed and his face held more emotion than Dean had ever seen the angel show. "Sam learned from me too. That's the thing. He was smart." Lucifer tapped one of Sam's long fingers against the side of his head. "He knew exactly how my power worked and when he knew you were going to say yes to Michael, he just—"  
  
Dean's heart fell into his stomach. "Why do you keep talking about him like—"  
  
"—he tore out of me and plunged into Michael—not just his vessel, into  _him_. He tore him apart, and he took so much of me with him, I thought—" Lucifer's laugh was hysteria tinged. "I thought I was going to die, too." He shook his head, Sam's long hair shaking loose from behind his ears. "But I'm still here." He brought his right hand to his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully on the tip of his thumb. "I'm still here."  
  
Dean's fear had taken hold of him fully and he stood, stalking towards Lucifer before he could stop himself. "You're here. And where's Sam?"  
  
"Sam destroyed himself to take out Michael." Lucifer's eyes were shining. "He's dead."  
  
Before he knew what he was doing, Dean had grabbed a hold of Sam's white t-shirt and hauled him to his feet. "Sammy?" he pleaded, searching his brother's eyes for any flicker of recognition.  
  
"He's dead," Lucifer said again.  
  
"So bring him back!" Dean snarled. "You've done it before, right? You brought me back hundreds of times, so just—"  
  
"There's nothing left to bring back." Sam's tall frame was heavy in Dean's grip, and Lucifer wasn't making much of an effort to stand on his own.  
  
Dean's fist collided with Sam's jaw and he yelled, "Bring him back!"  
  
"I can't!" A trickle of blood ran down from his split bottom lip, and Lucifer licked at it curiously, his eyes widening. "Sam's soul is gone. He used his own  _soul_  as a weapon," Lucifer said, like it was a revelation. "He pulled my power inside of him and used it all against Michael. I didn't know he could do that. Maybe it was all the angel blood…"  
  
When Dean let go, Lucifer slumped back against the wall, leaning against it like he didn't even have the energy to straighten his knees. He brought his hand gingerly to his jaw, like it ached.  
  
For a moment the world around him was completely silent—a soft buzzing inside Dean's skull blocked out everything else and he couldn't hold onto a single solid thought. His gaze drifted to the still-open door, and he walked to it, without really knowing why.  
  
"Where are you going?" Lucifer asked.  
  
Dean didn't answer. He went outside and walked in a stupor, with no clear goal in his mind. He longed for something to fight, for something to kill, but the streets were empty except for the occasional rat.  
  
After a while, he found himself inside of the hardware store and then a while later, the medical supply store. His body was on auto-pilot, hands moving independently of his mind, which was still devoid of any clear thought.  
  
His awareness started to come back a few steps away from Lucifer's door. He hadn't consciously planned to return, his feet had just carried him there, because that's where he was supposed to be.  
  
Hand on the doorknob, he froze and thought about his options. The world around him was dying. There were probably still survivors elsewhere—little pockets of humanity that had escaped the Croatoan virus and dodged the fallout from demonic or angelic combat. If he set out to find them, he would. He could teach them how to fight back, how to protect themselves. He could help them rebuild. If everything Lucifer had said was true, then they wouldn't have many angels left to deal with anymore at least.  
  
If everything Lucifer had said was true.  
  
Lucifer had no reason to lie to him.  
  
Sam was dead.  
  
The door creaked when it opened into the white room, but closed silently when Dean pushed it shut from inside, the wall sealing up completely, erasing every trace of the exit. He ran his finger along the wall, seeking out hidden grooves or a change in texture, but there was nothing. Just a cold, flat surface.  
  
Lucifer hadn't moved from his spot against the wall, but he looked up when Dean approached. "I'm still bleeding," he said, holding up a red-stained fingertip. "You broke my tooth, I think."  
  
Dean kneeled down across from Lucifer and set down the shopping bag he'd filled at the hardware store. He pulled out his tools one by one and laid them on the ground to his left, sorted by type.  
  
"My jaw still hurts," Lucifer added. His eyes fell on the collection Dean was assembling. "How long does it take for the pain to go away?"  
  
The medical supply store had held a whole collection of organizers. Dean had selected three and filled them all. One for each style of blade. "Depends," Dean said as he pulled the aluminum safety wrapper off of the three inch scalpel blade. "Sometimes the pain sticks around a long time."  
  
"What are you doing?" Lucifer asked, watching as Dean unwrapped the rest of the knives one by one.  
  
"You and I haven't had a good chance to get to know each other. Not really." Dean picked up the battery-powered drill from the hardware store and popped in the smallest bit he could find.  
  
"Are you going to build something?" Lucifer asked.  
  
"Yup." Dean laid the drill back on the floor and reached into the bag of syringes he'd picked up and began filling them with the small brown vials he'd found in the pharmaceutical section.  
  
"What are you building?"  
  
"How does this room work?" Dean asked.  
  
Lucifer tilted his head to the side, confused.  
  
"This room—it's why I heal so fast, right?"  
  
"No," Lucifer huffed. "Is that what you thought?" He shook his head. "That was all Sam."  
  
"Sam healed me?" Dean asked. "Not you?"  
  
Lucifer nodded, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile. "I would have let you die every time." His lip split open again where it had just started to heal, a bright red drop forming in the center. "I would've brought you back of course—"  
  
"Of course." Dean picked up the smallest of the scalpel blades and brought it to Lucifer's cheek. "How about now? If I get hurt now, will you heal me? Or bring me back after I die?"  
  
Lucifer swallowed, as his eyes turned towards the blade. "I don't think I can. I'm not even sure I can heal myself anymore."  
  
Dean's lips quirked as the tip of his scalpel drew a bright red bead of blood from Lucifer's cheek. It ran down the underside of Sam's cheekbone and dripped straight down, leaving a perfect red circle on the clean white floor. "Let's find out."


End file.
